


Private Dancer

by Lady Divine (fhartz91)



Category: Glee
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Crushes, Drama, Future Fic, M/M, Masturbation, New York City, Romance, Sexual Tension, Simulated Sex Acts, Strippers & Strip Clubs, lap dance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-23
Updated: 2016-01-23
Packaged: 2018-05-15 19:07:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5796295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fhartz91/pseuds/Lady%20Divine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rachel gets Kurt a job as a waiter for one night at a gay strip club in order to gain experience for a role he’s going to play, when Sebastian finds him and decides he’ll pay anything to get Kurt to give him a lap dance. </p><p>(Turning this one-shot into a series :)  )</p>
            </blockquote>





	Private Dancer

The music is too loud.

The strobe light, slicing chaotically through the dark, grazing the crowd, is way too bright; and the air around them smells repulsively like cheap cologne and old sex.

Kurt sniffs the air and makes a disgusted face, entirely unconcerned with hiding his revulsion. He turns to Rachel with narrow, disapproving eyes.

“I hate you, Rachel Barbra Berry.”

“No you don’t,” she says with a giggle and a playful slap. Kurt rolls his eyes at her disgusting giddiness.

“I don’t understand why _you’re_ so happy,” Kurt comments, sweeping his eyes around the crowded club, the hairs on the back of his neck rising at the sensation of inebriated stares watching him from the shadows. He can’t imagine _why_ considering the armor he has on – a black, ankle length, shapeless coat that leaves everything to the imagination. “You’re not the one who has to work here.”

“I’m happy for  _you_.” Rachel tugs on Kurt’s sleeve, bouncing up and down on the balls of her feet like a hyper toddler. “I mean, look at this place! It’s so gritty, so earthy. It’s so…so dirty and  _real_.”

“How come these places always smell like stale beer and sweat?” Kurt asks, gently prying the wrinkled arm of his coat out of Rachel’s grasp to keep her from yanking the fabric out of shape.

“Because everyone is drinking beer and sweating is my guess,” Rachel says with a dismissive wave of her hand. “Now give me your coat.” She waves grabby hands in Kurt’s face, looking at him expectantly.

Kurt shakes his head, backing subconsciously away and wrapping the coat tighter around him, reluctant to take it off in front of these men, who are already looking at Kurt like a lion would eye an elderly, one-legged gazelle. If he takes off his coat with the next to nothing he’s wearing underneath, he might as well lay himself out naked on the bar, cover himself in tequila and pretzels, and yell, “Happy Hour! Come and get it!”

“This is the part about acting I _love_!” Rachel jabbers, ignoring Kurt’s discomfort and undoing the buttons when he makes no move to disrobe. “Researching the role, really getting into the mindset of a character, discovering their motives, ripping them from the pages of the script and bringing them to life.”

Rachel wrestles the coat from Kurt’s shoulders, and Kurt yields out of fear that his freakishly strong, hobbit-sized friend might split the shoulder seams of his Burberry trench. Without it, the room is strikingly colder, and he feels exponentially more vulnerable. Goose bumps raise all over his exposed skin, which happens to be the majority of his body. Beneath his coat, Kurt wears nothing but his work uniform, if anyone can call a skimpy, skin-tight pair of gold Spandex boy-cut shorts a _uniform_. Kurt fights the urge to wind is arms around his shivering torso, or wrench the coat back out of Rachel’s arms, split seams be damned, and cover himself up again.

“I’m all for realism in researching a role,” Kurt says, self-consciously inching down the legs of his shorts, hoping to get them to cover more skin, “but this is ridiculous. I mean, I’m supposed to be a cocktail waiter in a gay bar. You got me a job at a strip club.”

“A  _gay_  strip club,” Rachel emphasizes. “Here…” She rifles through her purse and pulls out a travel-sized bottle of baby oil.

“You are not oiling me up, Rachel Berry!” Kurt cries, batting her away. “I am not _Sam_! Are you planning on pimping me off, too? Wh-who the hell are you right now!?”

Rachel shrugs, stowing the bottle back in her bag. “I just figured, while you’re here, you might as well make some decent tips.”

A low wolf-whistle, followed by a drawled, “ _Hot damn_ ,” catch Kurt’s attention. He turns, coming face to face with a gruff, older man. A lurid grin splits the man’s thick, cracked lips, while brown eyes, the whites yellowed from a lifetime of smoking, brazenly roam Kurt’s body.

“Your little friend over there was right,” the man says, approaching the two of them with open arms. “You  _are_  sexy as shit.”

Kurt shoots an icy glare at Rachel. She shakes her head, leaning in close.

“He’s paraphrasing,” she whispers.

“Oh. Okay,” Kurt replies with tense sarcasm.

The man keeps his arms open wide when he stops in front of them, as if he’s about to hug them both, but his hands hover, not quite touching. Even without the contact, Kurt can still feel his skin crawl.

“This is Larry,” Rachel points out, finally having the sense to look repulsed herself at the middle-age man’s obvious leer. “He owns  _The Platinum Club_.”

Larry grabs Kurt’s hand unexpectedly, pulling him too close for Kurt’s comfort. He lifts the ensnared hand to his mouth and places a sloppy kiss on it, grazing Kurt’s skin with the uneven edge of his teeth.

“Sexy as shit,” the man repeats with a growl.

Kurt wants to vomit. He bites his tongue to keep from mentioning that being called _sexy as shit_ is not exactly a compliment.

“Now, now, now, Lare,” a younger, less creepy, and more sober sounding man from behind the bar intervenes, “don’t frighten off another waiter. I’m short handed over here as it is.”

Larry sneers at the intrusion, but hands Kurt over, slapping him on the ass before he slinks back off to wherever he originally materialized from. Kurt yelps, covering his rear with protective hands, rubbing his sore cheek.

“Unfortunately, you’ll get used to it,” the bartender sympathizes. “My name is Ryan, by the way.”

“Kurt.” Kurt offers Ryan his hand and Ryan shakes it. Then, Ryan offers Kurt a bottle of Purell for his violated hand.

“Oh, God. _Thank you_ ,” Kurt says, dousing his skin and scrubbing it raw.

“No problem,” Ryan says. “I stock it by the gallon back here. Come on.” Ryan gestures with a nod of his head toward the other side of the bar. “I’ll introduce you to the rest of the sore-ass club.”

Kurt laughs, flat and humorless, opening his mouth to comment on the accuracy of that horrid nickname, when a disheveled man reeking of whiskey stumbles between them on his way to the exit. He spots Kurt and grins. Sucking in a breath through gapped teeth, a breath that he probably meant to be a whistle, he pinches Kurt hard on the non-slapped cheek, tripping past and disappearing down the entryway before a stunned Kurt has time to react.

“Are you kidding me!?” Kurt spins around, turning on Rachel with annoyance and humiliation in his eyes, and she at least has the decency to look genuinely sorry for getting him stuck in this mess. If Kurt didn’t genuinely need the experience, if he didn’t really want this part with every ounce of his being, he would grab his coat and leave. Instead, he takes a deep, meditative breath, and lets it out through pursed lips.

“One night,” he says, raising a finger to emphasize his point. “But tomorrow, I’m done. And then I’m calling OSHA.”

Rachel chokes on a laugh as she watches her friend maneuver through tables full of drunk or getting-there customers, eying him hungrily, both predators and prey sizing him up. Rachel mutters a prayer under her breath for Kurt’s safety before passing his coat to an attendant at the door and leaving the club, heading for the lonely comfort of home.

Someone else in the room, sitting with a group of rowdy friends in the V.I.P. section, spots Kurt, his green eyes widening with surprise, and then shining with the beginnings of an inspired idea.

***

Sebastian can hardly believe his eyes when he reads the text he receives from Hunter.

_To Sebastian:_

_You know that Hummel guy you always had a hard-on for? He’s working down at the Platinum Club, and you should see what he’s wearing! #hothothot_

_To Hunter:_

_What the fuck are you doing in a gay strip club? #notremotelybicuriousmyhairyballs_

_To Sebastian:_

_Fucking forget that, asshole! If you want a chance to get your boner on, get down here NOW!_

Sebastian doesn’t send a reply. He throws on jeans and a polo, and hops in the first cab he can find, paying the driver an extra fifty bucks to ignore the traffic lights. When Sebastian arrives at _The Platinum Club_ , he discovers that Hunter and his crew had already cleared out long before, and he thinks he might be the victim of another one of Hunter’s stupid pranks. After high school graduation, when Hunter found out that Sebastian had a thing for Kurt during a drunken game of _Truth or Dare_ , his greatest past time was sending Sebastian all over the city on wild goose chases for men that he thought might be Kurt Hummel.

To date, Sebastian has been punked an astounding 22 times.

Sebastian knows rationally that this is most likely another prank, but a strange sense of naïve hope where Kurt is concerned sends him racing across town. In his defense, Hunter did send him a blurry cell phone photo this time, and as far as Sebastian could see, the man serving drinks and wearing the gold _fuck me_ shorts looks enough like Kurt to make the trip worthwhile.

Even if Kurt isn’t here, maybe Sebastian can hook up with the waiter in the picture.

Sebastian breezes through the line outside and, with the help of a crisp fifty dollar bill, slips past the bouncer at the door. He hands his coat off to a pair of waiting hands, not sure whether they belong to the coat-check girl or some random drunk person, but he doesn’t care. He scans the room and spots Kurt almost immediately, practically naked, with the exception of those felonious shorts, his body so sinfully cut that Sebastian can count the muscles in his arms, abs, and legs. Sebastian licks his lips. God have mercy, did Captain Gay Face fill out! Kurt sashays through the crowd gathered around the catwalk, stealing the attention of the customers who came to gawk at the pole dancers, much to the dismay of the strippers losing their tips to a waiter.

“Like what you see?” a smooth voice with the hint of an accent murmurs in Sebastian’s ear. Sebastian feels himself grinning as he watches Kurt bend over to take drink orders, skillfully sidling away from hands reaching out to palm his ass.

“Yes, I do,” Sebastian answers without turning his eyes away from Kurt. Who would have known that incredible body was hiding under those hideous girl clothes he wore back in high school?

“Well, any of our gentleman are available for a private lap dance,” the faceless man propositions.

“Any?” Sebastian asks, wringing his hands, practically salivating.

“Yes, sir,” the voice purrs. “What’s your pleasure?”

“The waiter,” Sebastian says, imagining that Kurt’s dance card might already be overflowing with the names of men vying for an hour with him as their private dancer, “in the gold shorts.”

“Uh…” The voice stammers for a second, hedging an answer, “I don’t think he’s available.”

“You said _any_ of your gentlemen,” Sebastian reminds him. “He’s the one I want.”

“Well, he’s kind of special…”

“I know,” Sebastian interrupts. “That’s why I’m willing to pay double.”

“That’s…uh…” Sebastian hears the man reconsider, trying to find a way around whatever obstacle would keep Kurt from giving Sebastian a lap dance at double the rate, but he still hesitates. “I’m not sure if…”

“Triple,” Sebastian offers.

The man behind him sputters.

“I wish I could,” he says, and Sebastian laughs when he hears the man whine in frustration for having to turn down three hundred dollars for one lap dance, “but Kurt…”

“Look,” Sebastian says, turning and facing a short Latino man wearing a gaudy aubergine suit, with a gel-helmet to rival Blaine Anderson, “I am willing to pay an awful lot of money to get _that_ man in my lap for an hour, so why don’t you go talk to him and see what you can do to make that happen.”

The man smiles, showing off a bottom grill of faux-diamond teeth.

“Of course, sir,” he says. “Right away.”

The man shuffles off to catch Kurt on his way back to the bar. Sebastian watches the man whisper to Kurt, gesturing wildly with his hands as he explains the situation. Kurt jerks back, stepping away from the man, and shakes his head. Sebastian sees the determined expression on Kurt’s face. Sebastian knows that look, and he holds his breath, hoping that Mr. Aubergine Suit can persuade Kurt to change his mind. They talk some more, and Kurt’s eyes go wide. His head snaps up. The man points in Sebastian’s direction. Kurt turns, and for the first time, their eyes lock. Kurt squints, peering hard, the look in his eyes dark, but then Kurt smiles – not a _happy to see you again after so many years_ smile, but rather one that says loud and clear _I hate your ever living guts and will do anything to make you pay_.

Kurt nods, and Sebastian hears the man in the aubergine suit say, “Wonderful! Wonderful!” He smiles and claps, rushing back over to Sebastian while Kurt hands off his tray to another server and trails behind.

“He will do it for six times the rate,” the man tells Sebastian, “if you’re still interested…”

“I’m still interested,” Sebastian says, reaching his hand into his back pocket and pulling out his wallet. Kurt’s eyes never stray from Sebastian’s face as he pulls out a gold AmEx card and hands it over.

“Wonderful!” the man chirps, plucking the card from Sebastian’s fingers and squirreling away.

“Well,” Kurt says, his voice unimpressed and deceptively polite, “I guess I’m yours.”

Sebastian’s smile dips - those four words sharp, cutting, and painfully untrue, except for this small block of time.

For the next hour, Kurt is most definitely his.

***

“Kurt Hummel,” Carlos calls out in a pseudo-Puerto Rican accent that Kurt is 90% sure isn’t authentic. Kurt can’t help noticing that he sounds more chipper than he has all evening. “Kurt Hummel, I have a customer for you.”

Kurt turns, confused by the man’s use of the word _customer_. Hasn’t Kurt been serving customers for the past three hours?

“What do you mean?” Kurt asks, sliding a gin and tonic to the man seated at his left, swiveling his hips to avoid an ass grab.

“There is a man who is very interested in getting a lap dance…from _you_.”

Kurt can sense the man’s hope-tinged trepidation as Carlos fidgets, rolling on his heels, hands clasped in front of him with thumbs twiddling. Kurt knows why. Kurt had said at the start of his shift that under no circumstances was he available for lap dances. Some of the waiters do it for extra cash; a lot of them don’t. It was made clear to Kurt that it was his choice.

His choice was _no_ then, and his choice is _no_ now.

“Uh-uh, Carlos,” Kurt says, making a straight shot for the bar. “I said no.”

“B-but, this man wants _you_ ,” Carlos explains. “He wants you real bad. He’s willing to pay triple.”

Kurt stops, turning back to Carlos and tilting his head skeptically.

“Triple?”

“Yes,” Carlos says, encouraged now that he has Kurt’s attention. “Triple. He says he’ll pay _anything_ for a dance from you.”

“Who is this man?” Kurt asks, not completely convinced and not eager to be stuck with a drunk, handsy, over-reaching asshole who plans on stiffing him at the end of the night. “Is he cute?”

“Oh, a very handsome young man,” Carlos says, searching the crowd. He spots the man and points. Kurt follows Carlos’s finger where it lands on a single face, and sees someone he never expected to see again in his life.

Sebastian Smythe.

A more mature, better built version of Dalton Academy’s criminal chipmunk, but with the same sarcastic smirk and disarming, albeit clever, green eyes.

Kurt doesn’t know how Sebastian found him in New York, especially here of all places, but he’s sure that his promise to overcompensate Carlos for what is normally a hundred dollar lap dance is another attempt by Sebastian to make Kurt’s life miserable.

Through months of suffering Sebastian’s torment, Kurt had envisioned dozens of ways he could get revenge – cutting his brake line, reporting him to the IRS for fraud, replacing his underwear with itchy, ill-fitting polyester blends. Kurt didn’t get the chance to go through with any of those, and he always regretted not getting some kind of retribution. This might be his chance. Maybe Sebastian has changed, but so has Kurt. He’s become stronger, more confident, and if the last three hours have proven anything after his bumpy start it’s that here - dressed in his tiny shorts that showcase his new, sexier physique - he has power. Staring into Sebastian’s eyes, already blown wide with desire, desire for  _him_ , Kurt is sure he can use this power to his advantage.

Kurt Hummel is a baby penguin no more, and he’s more than ready to prove it.

“Tell him I’ll do it for six times the rate.” Kurt smiles like a tomcat, ready to sharpen his claws on Sebastian’s chest.

“S-s-six times!?” Carlos stutters nervously. “He won’t…”

“Yes he will,” Kurt says, confident that he has Sebastian dead to rights. “And don’t worry. He’s good for it.”

Carlos shrugs. “If you say so.” He returns back to Sebastian with a skip in his step and a counteroffer in hand.

Sebastian couldn’t care less how much it costs to get his hour alone with Kurt. He would have paid more if that’s what it took.

“This way,” Kurt says, leading Sebastian through the crowded club, customers clearing a path as they pass. Some glare at Sebastian with deep-seated envy, and Sebastian’s sure he isn’t the first man to proposition Carlos for an hour of Kurt’s time.

He’s just the first who has enough money to pay for it.

Sebastian leans over Kurt’s shoulder so he can whisper in his ear.

“I wouldn’t have spent so much time picturing you in a Lima Bean apron if I knew the image of you in next to nothing was so… _mouthwatering_.”

Kurt rolls his eyes, but adds more sway to his hips nonetheless.

“Is that a line?” Kurt tuts in disgust. “Does that actually work on some guys?”

“You’d be surprised,” Sebastian replies.

Kurt shakes his head. After the doozies he’s heard tonight, he wouldn’t be surprised at all.

Kurt sees the hallway to the private rooms up ahead, and his palms start to sweat - honestly and profusely sweat. Three hours he’s spent flirting and lobbing suggestive remarks, bantering back and forth with men who never had a chance, and here he is, leading the one man he can conceivably consider his arch nemesis into a private room for a lap dance.

Kurt suddenly feels that he might be a bit out of his depth.

Fuck his foolish pride. Kurt Hummel, ex-baby penguin, is about to make a colossal ass out of himself.

“So, what are the rules then?” Sebastian asks, and of course, he’d know there are rules. This probably isn’t his first lap dance. Kurt panics, wondering if there’s a chance for him to get out of this - pretend he has food poisoning, slip and break an ankle. Or maybe he’ll get lucky and a giant sinkhole will open up in the floor and swallow him whole.

Sinkholes happen in New York, right?

“ _I_ can touch _you_ , but _you_ can’t touch _me_ ,” Kurt says, parting the curtain to the private room and ushering Sebastian inside.

The room is more of a converted corner booth, left over from a time when this particular building was a restaurant acting as a front for a speak-easy. The mirror-covered walls surround a monstrous, red vinyl, wrap-around bench, with a low, sturdy table for the dancers to stand on and use as a stage.

“How do they know if I touch you?” Sebastian asks.

“There are cameras everywhere,” Kurt replies, pointing to the mirrors behind the vinyl bench, then swinging his arm around to indicate that everywhere _means_ everywhere.

Sebastian flops down on the bench and watches with amusement as Kurt orients himself with the room. Sebastian knows, on some level, that Kurt has never done this before. Oh, maybe once or twice he played around with Blaine, but nothing like this. Sebastian feeds off Kurt’s tension - the way he toys with the legs of his shorts, the way his eyes dart away to the safety of the hidden cameras when Sebastian stares, and Sebastian decides to up the ante. He reclines on the vinyl bench, draping one arm over the back, his other hand palming his cock, shamelessly watching Kurt with a gaze that peels the gold shorts off of Kurt’s hips, envisioning the ass hiding beneath.

“So if _you_ can touch _me_ ,” Sebastian says, working his hips up and down to get friction against his hand, “what are you allowed to do?”

“I can kiss you,” Kurt says, grabbing fretfully at his slipping confidence. “I can jerk you off, but _I_ get to decide.” He’s firm on that final point, and Sebastian nods, playfulness for the moment pushed aside.

“Gotcha,” Sebastian says with a nod.

Sebastian continues to move his hand deliberately over the crotch of his jeans, rolling his head back on his shoulders. Kurt looks on with fascination. All this time, all these years, he never imagined he would see Sebastian like this – turned on, masturbating, while waiting for Kurt to seduce him. It’s surreal and exciting, and when Sebastian arches his back and moans, Kurt can feel his own cock respond, growing, throbbing, craving more of that sound, wanting to be a part of Sebastian making it.

Sebastian looks at Kurt and his hand stops moving.

“I’m paying for you to dance, princess,” he says, “not for you to watch me jack off. Otherwise, you should be paying me.”

“Fuck you,” Kurt snaps before he realizes his mistake.

“Is that extra?” Sebastian asks. “Because I have plenty more money to spend.”

Kurt steps up onto the table, and he hears Sebastian shift. Sebastian sits forward on the bench, elbows resting on his knees, chin propped in his hands.

Kurt tries to find his center, imagines himself alone in his room, dancing, trying so hard to be sexy before he understood what _sexy_ really meant. He concentrates on the muted music pounding outside the booth in the club. He finds the rhythm, attaches to it, and once he can block out the eyes staring into him, waiting for him to do something, _anything_ , he starts to move.

With his eyes shut tight, he inhabits his own private world of darkness, where he’s free to be whatever he wants to be, and right now he wants to be alluring, devastating, the man of Sebastian’s dreams. He hears a gasp, and the sound almost makes him falter. It would be so much easier doing this if he had ever actually fantasized about Sebastian.

Then his mind spins, and he feels a cold sweat break out over his skin.

_Oh my God!_

There was one.

One night, after Blaine had admitted to cheating and Kurt had gotten a little drunk to numb the pain, he had a dream - a wet dream about Sebastian. It started off with the simple thought of getting back at Blaine, and how perfect Sebastian would be in that capacity, since he would probably be an amazing fuck, and Kurt imagined that angry revenge sex seemed like something he’d be into.

Rachel wasn’t home, so Kurt put on some loud music, something with a bass line that vibrated through his blood, to add to the feel and erase some of the shame. He stripped off his clothes piece by piece, touched his own body with firm, aggressive hands, cupping the nape of his neck to simulate Sebastian grabbing a hold of him, kissing him hard, prying his lips apart with his tongue until Kurt gave in and let himself be kissed.

Kurt’s body moves on its own as he locks on to the scintillating thought of Sebastian having his way with him, taking him almost forcefully. Kurt’s hips twist, mimicking the sway of his body the way it would move against Sebastian’s skin. He threads shaking fingers through his hair and pulls, exposing the long line of his pale neck, beckoning, inviting.

On the vinyl bench where Kurt has yet to spare a glance, Sebastian bites his lip hard.

But Sebastian wants more – much, much more.

“That’s real nice and all” - Sebastian clears his throat to keep his voice from failing him, or worse, turning into a moan when Kurt bends over in front of him, folding himself in half, then opens his eyes for the first time to gaze up at Sebastian from between his ankles - “but lap dance means on my lap, princess.” Sebastian pats his thighs. “Up here.”

Kurt stares at Sebastian’s lap like a deer paralyzed in the headlights of an oncoming train. Kurt wonders if he can go through with this, play out this fantasy while straddling Sebastian’s body. Then again, how is it he has managed this long without his heart, since it’s sprinting so quickly in his chest, he can’t even feel it beating?

But Kurt has no intention of backing down.

He isn’t going to let Sebastian win.

Kurt hops down off the table and walks over to Sebastian. He puts a foot on the bench, pulling himself up until he’s standing one foot on each side of Sebastian’s lap. He switches feet, turning around, and sinks slowly to his knees, giving Sebastian an excellent view of his rear on the way down.

“Why are you facing away from me, beautiful?” Sebastian pouts when Kurt settles an inch above his lap.

“You paid me to dance for you,” Kurt says, swiveling his hips, his thighs grazing the denim of Sebastian’s jeans, “nothing says I have to look at your meerkat face while I do it.”

Kurt closes his eyes again and transports back to that place in the dream where Sebastian laid him down on his bed and rutted against him, sucking purple marks into his neck, hard enough to sting but not enough to hurt, tingling down his spine and pooling in his groin.

Sebastian calling him _beautiful_ definitely doesn’t ruin that image at all.

Sebastian would have preferred to stare into Kurt’s haunting blue eyes, hoping to see him come apart, even a fraction, but this is just as good. In a way, it’s even better. So many times Sebastian dreamt of this – Kurt straddling him, riding him, lost to lust and abandon, using his body for his own pleasure.

Kurt doesn’t touch Sebastian, but Sebastian can still feel his heat through his clothes, radiating over him. Kurt raises his arms over his head, bouncing up and down in Sebastian’s lap mere inches from where Sebastian needs him. Kurt’s body is so close, writhing, his muscles, his skin, his gorgeous ass, so fucking close, but invisible barriers keep getting in the way. There’s still a wall of bitterness and resentment that Sebastian needs to strip away if he even stands a chance of anything happening with Kurt. Sebastian would give anything to rake his fingers through them and tear them down.

“You don’t belong in this place,” Sebastian says, his voice hoarse, quivering as Kurt starts undulating again, sinking down lower, his ass barely brushing Sebastian’s erection where it strains against his jeans. The only thing missing is that sweet, singular voice of Kurt’s moaning Sebastian’s name.

Kurt turns his head to peek over his shoulder, come-hither eyes shining in the glow of the swirling lights that surround them.

“Well, you came here and you found me here,” Kurt says. “So, in what place do you think I belong?”

Kurt leans back, letting his dream mix with reality, baiting Sebastian. His body moves like a wave, crashing all around, and Sebastian can’t breathe, drowning beneath the beauty of Kurt’s skin, the unmatched brilliance of his eyes, and his all too fascinating mouth that whispers silent promises and seems to beg Sebastian to drink him in.

Sebastian swallows, tongue slipping along his dry lips, wetting them as they try to chase Kurt’s mouth and take a taste.

Kurt’s body is feral in the way it moves - feline, sinuous, bending and twisting in ways Sebastian only dreamed. Kurt isn’t a stripper, he’s a dancer, and that fact turns Sebastian on even more. Kurt taunts him, tempts him, running his hands over his own body, slipping his middle finger between his lips and sucking hard while his free hands snakes down between his legs, stroking himself through his gold shorts, knuckles dangerously close to Sebastian’s crotch. Sebastian digs his nails into the vinyl bench, his sanity splitting into pieces, threads snapping apart left and right. As much as he wants to flip Kurt over and take him right here, he doesn’t want to risk being tossed out before his hour is up.

“Sebastian?” Kurt whispers. “Tell me. What place do you think I belong?”

Kurt’s sultry countertenor is the lynch pin that pulls Sebastian completely apart. That voice ghosts over his skin, spirals around him, and Sebastian shudders. Kurt is controlling him, commanding him, and with a snap of his hips, makes him cum without a single touch to Sebastian’s body.

“Mine,” Sebastian groans, hips stuttering up, no longer caring how much trouble he might get into. “You belong with me.”

Kurt stops moving but it doesn’t matter. The damage is done. As Sebastian reels from his orgasm, his mind scolds him for his stupidity.

_Why? Why did he have to say that?_

Kurt scrabbles off Sebastian’s lap, putting a safe distance between them.

“You went over your hour,” Kurt says, focusing on the clock instead of the bliss on Sebastian’s face. “Carlos might charge you.”

“I don’t care,” Sebastian mutters, a goofy grin plastered to his face. “It was worth every penny.”

Kurt nods, and suddenly he doesn’t feel powerful anymore. He doesn’t feel satisfied with his revenge.

What revenge? What did he actually do? He got Sebastian off, that’s what he did. It’s what Sebastian paid for.

But what was all that bullshit about Kurt _belonging_ with him?

And why did it feel so good to hear?

“Well, you can clean up in here,” Kurt says, backing out of the room. “There’s no charge for that. They’ll have your credit card for you at the bar.”

The last few words are tossed over Kurt’s shoulder as he makes his way back to the main room. Sebastian, noticing how Kurt transformed from sex kitten back to ice queen in record time, leaps from the bench and takes off after him.

“Kurt! Kurt! Let me talk to you.”

Kurt jogs a few more steps towards the bar, but then stops out of morbid curiosity, giving Sebastian a chance to catch up.

“Kurt! What did I do?”

Kurt turns and glares at Sebastian, his eyes hardening to a steely gray.

“What was all that shit about?” Kurt yells. “You come in here, acting like same old Sebastian Smythe, asshole extraordinaire, throwing around money to get what you want, and then you say I _belong_ with you? Who the hell do you think you are? What…what gives you the right?”

“Look,” Sebastian says, “I’m sorry, but you don’t understand. I…I needed to get close to you, alright? _Fuck!_ ” Sebastian tilts his head up and runs a hand through his sweaty hair. “I was…I was just looking for an excuse to talk to you.”

Kurt crosses his arms defensively over his chest and takes a step closer.

“Then next time,” Kurt snarls, “order a _drink_ from me instead of a lap dance.”

***

Barely an hour before the end of his shift, Kurt calls it quits. He’s had enough. The customers in the bar aren’t all that bad, especially as the night winds down and the alcohol settles in, making everyone tired and mellow, but he can’t get Sebastian out of his mind.

He started out hating him, seething for getting him into that lounge, for playing into his hands, for grinding like a whore in his lap, thinking that having an effect on him and making him lose control was wiping the slate clean between them, but it didn’t.

It made Sebastian a winner in this game between them one more time.

Kurt could have written him off. Excused him as a mistake and tried to go on with his night if it wasn’t for the last thing he said –  _you belong with me_.

How could Kurt ever _belong_ with Sebastian? Sebastian had nothing but loathing and contempt for him, and that door swung both ways, so in what universe did Sebastian believe they _belonged_ together?

No universe that Kurt lived in, of that he was certain.

So, how come he feels so empty now that Sebastian is gone?

Kurt doesn’t want to think about it anymore. He wants to get home, soak in a hot bath, and forget that tonight ever happened.

He cashes out, collects his tips, grabs his coat, and skips out before he has to say a personal goodbye to Larry. He speeds down the entryway, not bothering to button up his coat in his haste to be out of _The Platinum Club_. The bouncer pushes the door open for him and a blast of freezing cold air hits him. He shivers so violently it hurts, but he welcomes a breath of air that isn’t accompanied by the stench of desperation.

He takes the steps two at a time, focusing on his goal of lavender scented bubble bath and Lana del Rey on shuffle on his iPod, when he discovers his night might be far from over.

Leaning against a street lamp, hands stuffed in his pockets, eyes trained on the door, Sebastian stands, waiting for him.

Kurt stops in his tracks at the sight of him, exhaustion bearing down. His first instinct is to tell Sebastian to fuck off, then storm away in true diva fashion, but in spite of himself, he starts sauntering toward him, like he had expected him to be standing out there waiting for him all along.

“What the hell are you still doing here?” Kurt asks, not willing to let him off so easily.

“I thought, maybe, we could talk about that drink,” Sebastian replies.

“My shift’s over,” Kurt says, tying the belt of his trench coat and pulling it tight, not bothering with the buttons. “I’m not serving drinks anymore tonight.”

 _Or any other night_ , he neglects to say.

“I was thinking, maybe, I could buy you a drink?” Sebastian’s eyes no longer burn, his smile sweet and sheepish, and even though Kurt’s not thrilled to admit it, that shy, unassuming smile makes winged creatures flutter around in his stomach.

Kurt stares up at the sky, biding his time and weighing his options before he gives Sebastian an answer.

“Alright,” Kurt sighs dramatically, pretending to sound extraordinarily put out. “Just one though.”

Sebastian offers Kurt his arm, and Kurt takes it, letting Sebastian lead him down the street. He side-eyes Sebastian’s face, watching his shy smile turn into a full-fledged grin, and Kurt is reminded of the hour he spent grinding in Sebastian’s lap.

“And dinner?” Sebastian presses, his grin morphing back into his trademark smirk as he adds, “I’m sure you’re famished after all that  _hard_  work.”

“Now you’re pushing it, Smythe,” Kurt says, moving a hair closer to steal Sebastian’s warmth, Sebastian moving closer at the same time when he feels Kurt tremble. “Now you’re pushing it.”

 


End file.
